


Lighting Up the Sky

by ArabellaCastre



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Wanda Maximoff, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Domestic Avengers, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Hurt/Comfort, In this house we deny endgame and vent through other means, It’s literally 2012 again because I want it to be okay, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team as Family, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Wanda Maximoff has PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArabellaCastre/pseuds/ArabellaCastre
Summary: And then, right at the edge of the world, the orbs erupt into a magnificently colourful chaos.Vivid colours burst in vast, glittery flowers, arcs and curves in the sky, and Wanda gasps in awe.. It’s far more beautiful than anything she could’ve imagined. Her pulse is hammering with elation and anticipation and she’s beaming at the sky, a big silly grin as bright as the display- but then the first boom sounds off.And Wanda falters.Or, this request: “Please could you have wanda afraid of storms /fireworks cause they sound like bombs?”





	Lighting Up the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> PTSD TRIGGER WARNING STAY SAFE LOVELIES!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> This was inspired entirely by a comment on my WIP ‘Try Being Sixteen.’, that I absolutely loved when I read it. This one shot takes place in that same universe, and it might just pop up there too in later chapters. The comments on my last post were INSANELY lovely, and they inspired me an incredible amount (as you can see), so thankyou so much, and feel free to comment on this one too. Speak to me! Say what you like, what you’d like to see, anything makes me smile :)! <3

 

The Fourth of July- to the surprise of absolutely none, she’s sure- is a holiday that Wanda Maximoff has never celebrated, until now. And after a whole day spent watching the team throw their cheapest, tackiest star-spangled gimmicks right at Steve Rogers  _just_   to piss him off, she decides that she’s missed out on far too much. 

 (Clint, Sam, Tony and even  _Nat_ , for the record, had somehow obtained patriotic merchandise to replace every basic necessity. The light had visibly left Steve’s eyes when Clint handed him toilet paper emblazoned in stars and stripes.)

 And the food- holy shit, the  _food_ \- maybe it’s not an American thing: maybe it’s just a Tony Stark showering his family type of thing, but there was  so much food. If Wanda wasn’t so incredibly stuffed, her stomach would be growling at the mere thought. 

 It’s well into the evening now, a deep midnight having blanketed the horizon, but she can still catch the red and blue glitter sparkling faintly in Steve’s hair. They’re all tangled in a heap of soft blankets and sprawled limbs on the grass, snuggled in a cocoon of rare domestic bliss beneath the stars. 

 There’s glitter in Wanda’s hair, too: she’s yet another helpless innocent, she realises, who’s been caught in the crossfire. And now that she’s paying it mind, the sensation is persistent, all itching and scratchy. Theres glitter down her top, she’s sure. There’s glitter in the lines of her face. There’s varying shades of glitter coating every surface Wanda’s touching in a thin, gritty coat. 

 She elects to ignore it. Her pesky little subconscious isn’t so compliant, which is how she ends up sitting up sharply, three seconds later, and shaking her head roughly like a wet dog. 

 “Guys, I think Wanda’s lost it.”

 “It’s the patriotic spirit. It does strange things to a person.”

 “She’s always been a bit strange, don’t you think?”

 Selectively oblivious, she settles back down into the nest, and pulls a blanket up to her chin. 

 Somewhere quite close, a bird begins to sing in short bursts of pleasant whistles. Against the exposed skin of her cheek, the evening breeze is quite cool; her face tingles as it blows through. It’s refreshing though, the crispness of the air, and Wanda relishes the contrast against the typically stuffy New York summer. 

 “Hey, look,” Nat says, from inches beside her. Wanda can’t make out much in the dusk, but she shuffles closer and Nat’s pointing up at the sky, her expression bathed in silvery moonlight. “That’s the Gemini constellation. That’s Clint’s constellation.”

 “And Tony’s,” chimes Steve, sprawled somewhere to her left. The entirety of the velvety sky is peppered with sparkling flecks of light, and if Wanda strains, then maybe, just  _maybe_ , she finds that some are strung together. Maybe she’s just kidding herself. 

  _Wait_ ... how come the black widow knows her constellations? It’s so out of character that it makes incredible sense.

 (Maybe, at this, she pictures Natasha fiercely researching whether her next target is a Scorpio or an Aries. Maybe it’s nobodies business.)

 Wanda’s considering asking, but Sam beats her to the punchline. At least, she thinks he does. “Why do you know Tony’s zodiac sign?” he questions instead, which is something she hadn’t even picked up on. 

 She feels a nonchalant shrug, and there’s some giggling and muttering but she’s lost in the cosmos, searching out clusters and scattered specks of diamonds amongst the twilight. There’s a strange glimmer at the edge of her vision- perhaps it’s simply a trick of the light, but she’s learned not to be so dismissive. For all Wanda’s aware, that could be Thor, soaring through the galaxy, jumping through space...

 It’s a while, quite an impressive while, before someone stirs again: the entire group so still and peaceful for longer than she’s ever seen them.  _Well_ ... Clint and Sam  had been been poking one another for the past ten minutes, but she managed to zone out that particular interruption. And Steve had been whistling softly, but that was quite melodic. 

 It’s fitting that its Tony who ends the nonsense. 

 Disheveled Bruce in tow, he marches across the field, his hair and his bright eyes wild. If Wanda hadn’t already known he’d been setting up an exceedingly lavish fireworks display for the last hour or so, she might assume he’s a mad scientist who’s just applied the finishing touches to his doomsday device. Besides him, Dr Banner in his half-tucked plaid shirt and his crooked glasses does nothing to disprove the image. 

 “Are you finished? Is it ready?” She chirps as they near, clambering to her feet and bouncing on her heels. Tony, to his credit, only looks half as stricken as Bruce at her sudden bout of enthusiasm. 

 “How old are you again?” He asks. 

 For the first time ever, Wanda is overcome with the urge to giggle, which is a sensation she very quickly hopes never to experience again. That particular expression is  _far_   too off-brand for her liking. Has the glitter affected her brain? 

 Nope. But the promise of big sparkly sky explosions definitely has!

 Ever since she caught clips of the New Years celebration in Times Square, Wanda’s been somewhat obsessed with the idea of fireworks. Back in Sokovia, she saw nothing of the like- the odd pathetic sparkler, maybe, but nothing close to these enormous spirals of dazzling, rainbow light that light up the entire sky; showers of vivid green sparks that crackle and fizz. 

 This breed of pure, childlike excitement over something so trivial is very unmarked territory for Hydra’s prized energy weapon, but Clint and Sam have been encouraging the notion for all it’s worth. (She doesn’t mind in the slightest that they do so because they’re scared that she’s lost her emotional capabilities to years of ruthless indoctrination. They’re just really damn pretty.)

 “You bet,” Tony says, breaking his facade, and for all his sarcasm Wanda can tell he’s just as excited. After seeing him work in the lab, she thinks anyone would label him a pyromaniac. Spinning round on his heel, he points to somewhere in the tree-line. “Your life’s rent, doubled in the best fireworks we could assemble.”

 “And New York has some pricey real estate,” he adds. 

 Sam lets out a low whistle. 

 “Now this I gotta see.” 

 “You sure you can live up to your promises, Stark?” Natasha jests, and he nods with a face that’s asking whether she really needs to question his skill at creating explosions for fun. 

 “Seriously, I’ve never seen Wanda smile for longer than, like, two seconds,” Clint adds, “So if you mess this up,  well ...” He drags a finger very slowly across his throat. 

 “You know, Fury said you assassin types were stable to be around, but now I’m being threatened over Roman candles.”

 “Don’t sweat it,” Nat says. Her eyes flicker quite intentionally to the holster-shaped bulge in her hoodie. 

 “Well, then...” Tony says slowly, dragging out the word, “If you’d all like to follow me.”

 They assemble in a sort of line across the field; Wanda skips into place alongside Nat and Sam, where she stays perched on her tiptoes. Nat turns and grins, and she beams back up at her. 

 The tension in the air is palpable: Wanda’s been waiting for this very moment with increasing elation  _forever_ . Forever and a couple of months, anyhow. She’s all but vibrating with excitement, and then Tony finally lifts his wrist to his face, and speaks into his watch. 

 “Ready, Friday?”

 “Of course, boss.”

 “Light it up.”

 The instance that he speaks, several glowing orbs shoot up into the sky, searing a trail of sparks and neon light in their wake. They go up, and up, and up- higher and higher still, until she has to strain her neck to see them go. 

 And then, right at the edge of the world, the orbs erupt into a magnificently colourful chaos. 

 Vivid colours burst in vast, glittery flowers, arcs and curves in the sky, and Wanda gasps in awe. It’s breathtaking, all the technicolour lights flourishing in spectacular projections across the skyline, gleaming orange and purple and turquoise. It’s far more beautiful than anything she could’ve imagined. Her pulse is hammering with elation and anticipation and she’s beaming at the sky, a big silly grin as bright as the display- but then the first  _boom_ s ounds off. 

 And Wanda falters. 

 Another  _boom_ echoes the length of the field, and another again, shaking the trees and vibrating deep within her bones. 

  _Boom_.

 Wanda looks around too quickly, trying to see if anyone is sensing anything similar. But despite her inexplicable panic, she’s met with only the purest of smiles across every single face. Steve, Tony, Sam, Clint, Natasha and Bruce are all encapsulated by the pyrotechnics, just as she had been seconds ago. 

 Another four or so fireworks ignite in quick succession, and suddenly she feels all funny. 

 Her heart begins to pound within her tiny chest as if it’s trying to break free of its confine; Wanda tries again to focus on the beautiful colours lighting the sky, but she’s trembling like the trees in the distance. 

  _Boom._

  _Boom._

 

  _ **BOOM**_!

 The vivid colours blur together, and a disembodied high-pitched noise rings in her ears. She feels sick. 

 Oh,  _god_. 

  _ **BOOM**_!

 Her knees buckle. 

 Beneath the rubble, the air is hot and thick. 

 Wanda chokes as she tries- in vain- to pull in more oxygen, but before she manages to coax herself down from asphyxiation, another thunderous  _boom_   sounds in the distance, and her shelter creaks threateningly. On pure instinct, she violently smacks a hand over her mouth to muffle a scream- she can’t afford to make noise: the bad men will hear, or so Pietro says, and then there’ll be a bomb and it’ll all be over in a blazing torrent of fire, and-

 Pietro. 

 Where is he?

 Another world-breaking explosion wracks whatever’s left of the building’s foundations, and for the first time in days Wanda can do nothing to hold back her scream. 

 “Pietro?” She shrieks hysterically, because despite her terror she’s desperate to huddle over him, to shield him from the blindingpain that she knows is coming- it’s only a matter of time. But, startlingly, her clawing hands find nothing within the darkness. He was  _right_   here, they were clinging to one another, but... he must’ve slipped from beneath her grasp, somewhere below this pile of steaming debris, and she can’t hear him or find him and he was right here, and-

  ** _BOOM_**!

 This time, the explosion cannot be more than a building away. Involuntarily, Wanda cries out- the missile has landed in such a dangerous proximity that she feels the singing heat of its flames, fanning outward with its expulsion. She’s dead, and she knows it. The terrorists haven’t quite met her mark, but she’s sobbing and trembling so ferociously that she fears she’s going to bring the rubble down anyway. 

  _Wanda? Can you hear me?_

 She whips around, but the movement is jarring, and another pained sound is torn from her burning lungs. She’s finally done it. She’s going to be crushed alive. 

  _It’s not real, Wanda._

 Blown wide, her frantic eyes dart wildly about the darkness. She can see nothing. Smothered by her impending, irrevocable doom, and the burning sheet of concrete hovering only centimetres above her head, she gags again on a breathe that won’t come, and splutters painfully. 

 Forget being buried in rubble. She’s going to suffocate. Or boil to ashes beneath this flaming debris. 

  _Whatever you’re experiencing, it’s not happening_. 

 From behind her churning, overwhelming panic, and through her blinding, writhing terror, Wanda somehow manages to catch that mad whisper. It’s a noise that’s strangely distorted and warbled- so starkly out of place- and Wanda swears that she’s going insane, but somehow she  _recognises_   that voice. It’s faint, but for a moment the relentless explosions seem to have ceased, and she can’t doubt that the voice is familiar. 

 Are they coming to rescue her?

  _Breathe Wanda. It’s not real. It’s okay._

 Is Papa okay? Is Pietro okay?

 Innately, she trusts the voice: she truly tries to comply, to take deep even breaths, but she’s trembling so fiercely that the motion hurts. She tries to calm down, but feels the heat of the burning rock, pressed up against her back; she feels chalky dust and grit settled in a layer on her skin, and tastes the tinge of coppery blood on her tongue. 

  _Blood_ . Unwillingly, she remembers Pietro dragging her with him under the dinner table, away from her Mama- her Mama’s broken face, smeared in thick, dark blood. Almost unrecognisable. The image sends Wanda reeling all anew, and she doubles over with the splitting pain in her chest.

 I  _think you’re having a flashback_. 

 “Pietro?” She screams. Her voice is painfully hoarse, and the effort feels like sandpaper is being scraped down her throat. There’s cotton wool in her mouth, in her brain. 

 Again, the voice is startling. 

  _It’s okay._

_You’re not there, Wanda. It’s a flashback._

_You’re safe._

_You’re okay._

 She’s safe?

 She can’t be. Together, they’ve been trapped here for days on end, waiting painstakingly for the final fatal blow, and.... where  _is_   her brother? She curls in on herself tightly like an infant, sobbing for Pietro and her Mama, and Papa, buried beneath the ash... 

  _Can you feel the grass?_

 Her stuttered breath hitches. Grass? There’s grass in the yard at Kindergarten, littered with sprigs of wild flowers. 

  _It’s in your hands, can you feel it?_

 Wanda is compelled, by the nature of its tone perhaps, to lower her shaking hands blindly to the ground. Expecting entirely to find hot, hard rock against her fingertips, she’s taken harshly aback and almost yelps when she finds something soft and damp in its place. 

  _That’s the field outside the Avengers Compound._

 Her knuckles whiten. Immeasurably, her grip tightens around tufts of the slippery stuff- tufts of soft, fresh  _grass_ . That isn’t right. That doesn’t belong. Their tiny complex, in fashion with the entirety of the poorer districtis nothing but smothering concrete, and yet there’s greenery between her fingertips. 

  _You’re in the field outside Avenger’s Compound, Wanda. The entire team is here. You are safe._

 Wanda digs her fingers firmly into the ground, which gives way with little resistance. She clamps her hand around something solid, and pulls up a clump of moist, fertilised earth. The smell of fresh dirt- of forests, and woodlands and rolling green hills-it’s not from Sokovia. 

  _That’s it. You’re okay Wanda. You’re okay..._

 

 ...

 

 

 

 ...

 

 

 “Sam?”

 Her voice is barely a whisper. Her eyes are squeezed shut. She’s terrified of what she’ll find if she opens them. 

 “Yeah,” he says, and then again quieter. “Yeah, that’s me.” She senses an incredible intensity of emotion radiating from him, but his voice remains impressively level. “Are you okay, Red? Do you know where you are?”

 She nods behind her knees, but still keeps her eyes clamped firmly shut. 

 “You’re safe Wanda,” he repeats and she wants nothing more than to yell and scream and shout that she  knows , that she’s knows nothing can hurt her here and that she’s just being silly- but,the truth is... she’s unequivocally  _terrified_.  The mere thought of opening her eyes sets her off shaking like a leaf, because she’s certain to find that horrific, stifling void. 

 “I don’t wanna go back there,” she says, brokenly. Pleading. 

 “It’s over. Whatever you saw, wherever you were, it’s over, kid.” 

 Hot, salty tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes and trickle down her face; she doesn’t have the reserve to swipe them away. If she moves, the world will come crashing down. 

 “Can I touch you?” 

 It’s not Sam, this time. It’s strange: she knew that they’d all been standing guard all this time, could feel their concern so thick she could cut it, but until now she’s been in a bubble of sorts. She never meant to worry them all like this. She just wanted to watch the fireworks. 

 “Red? Can I touch your arm?”

 She nods. In a heartbeat, there’s a gentle pressure on her shoulder, which is immediately grounding. And then she’s leaning into the warmth, and she’s being pulled aside into a hug, her face nuzzled against his chest. 

 “Clint?” She whispers, her voice muffled in the folds of his soft t-shirt. “I don’t wanna go back there.” The ghost of his hand softly strokes her hair, and the fresh tears from her cheeks. “I don’t wanna- I don’t wanna do that again.I don’t want to go back there.”

 “It’s over,” he reassures, and though he’s not quite as good as Sam at keeping his tone neutral, something about him manages to calm her raging anxiety somewhat. There’s not a face in the clearing that isn’t frowning deeply at her pain, she can tell, but she still feels an incredible guilt at the misery she’s caused. “You’re not going anywhere.”

 They don’t, for a while. 

 For a long time, all seven of them stay huddled beneath the stars. Physically, they’re a lot closer than they were before- each of them longing for contact, to know that their kid’s still breathing, that she isn’t hurting anymore. 

 They’re all shaken, even though half won’t admit it in the morning. 

 When finally Wanda musters the courage to open her eyes, she’s met only with her family, bathed in starlight. Natasha and Bruce pointing out Orion’s Belt, and Sam clamouring to see, and Tony brushing blue sparkles out of Steve’s hair, and Clint chatting softly yet increasingly animatedly about s’mores- it’s a sight that not only fills her with pure, unbridled relief, but it’s a sight of which she knows she will never tire. 

 After an even longer time, with the sweet smell of melting marshmallows and smokey embers, her hands stop their shaking. 

 It’s a start. 

 ——————————————-

 Tony catches her in the kitchen the next morning. He’s draining a coffee filter over the sink when she goes rooting around for edible breakfast food, and Wanda smiles sheepishly when he says hello. 

 The lines under his eyes tell her that he hasn’t slept, not least sufficiently, but for Tony that isn’t remarkable. He looks the way she feels. 

 “I’m sorry,” he blurts, before she has the chance to stop him from doing just that. “About last night-“

 “Not your fault,” she cuts in. She should’ve known Tony would blame himself. 

 His left eyebrow raises, and despite everything, she wishes that she possesses the ability to mimic him. 

 “Seriously. I was being stupid. I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

 The second her words are out in the open, she fears by hisdramatic change in expression that she’s said something horribly, horribly wrong. 

 “No-“ he says, discarding the filter that he’s been fumbling with, “No, don’t say that...” 

 Wanda frowns, and Tony’s eyebrows twist in contemplation- he chews his lip, and rubs his brow, fidgeting. 

 “I have it.”

 She opens her lips to question or intercept, but he’s started now, and there’s no interrupting whatever Tony has to say. 

 “It’s called PTSD. It’s not stupid...”

 He meets her eyes. 

 “Post-Traumatic-Stress Disorder. All the bells and whistles. Had it ever since New York, and that damn wormhole.”

 “I’m  sorry that it’s got a hold on you too. But I want you to know it gets better.”

 She’s filled with a warm, indescribable hope. 

 ————————————————————

 There’s a weapon hidden secretly somewhere within every room that Natasha Romanoff walks between. 

 Clint Barton will never sit in a chair from which he cannot see the door. His hearing is no longer something that he can rely on. 

 Sam Wilson will happily fly in his wings, but never an aeroplane.

 Bruce Banner does not like to forget things. He writes down every slight detail on scraps of paper, because the Hulk leaves gaping holes in his memory. 

 There is never a time or a place that Tony Stark isn’t wearing some part of his armour. 

 Ever since 1945, Steve Rogers has stayed far away from open water. The thermostat in his room is always dialled far higher than necessary. 

 These are all things that Wanda had always been aware of, but only now has she thought to associate with that term- with PTSD. 

 Even though she still thinks it’s weird (and pointless, but she daren’t announce it), Wanda’s forced to speak to Sam on occasion. Post Traumatic Stress- it’s his area, what with being a therapist for war veterans and all. 

 She comes to realise, though, the more she knows and learns from him, that she’s far less isolated in her struggle than she initially believed. And she feels a little less alone, every time she recognises a sign. 

 ————————————————-

 It’s been two weeks since the fireworks incident, and Wanda is,  _well_ , coping. If that’s the correct word. 

 Since she now knows the terms- triggers, Sam calls them- she’s a little on edge- she hadn’t known, after all, that loud bangs have such an effect on her until she was blindly suffering from a fully fledged episode. 

 But there is no safe way, without delving dangerously into her own mind, of knowing the things that trigger her panic, or her trauma. So Wanda doesn’t know anymore than before the incident the things she should actively avoid, apart from the obvious. But it’s not like this is all new, either; she’s got a long list of trauma blotting her history. Only now, it has a name. 

 Never before has Wanda let the weight of her past drag her down, and she sure as hell isn’t about to start appeasing the terrorists, or Strucker, or Ultron, or any other evil. 

 In both practice and in field, she trains harder than she ever has before; she learns faster than she ever has, and she becomes more and more powerful everyday in her own right. She begins to grow beyond the confines of her fear, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness. 

 Eventually, one evening, they’re all sat around outside in a similar arrangement, lounging in the final ebbs of the dying summer sun. When at last the light fades, and the stars begin to appear, Wanda shows them what she’s been working on, when she’s found the spare time. 

 Together, she clicks her middle and thumb finger, before simultaneously twisting and flattening her hand in one swift movement. Static accumulates the length of her arm, and the hair there crackles. It tickles. Revealed in the middle of her open palm, sits a tiny, pulsing bead of concentrated crimson energy. 

 There’s an echo of ‘ _Ooohs_ ’ and ‘ _Ahhhhs_ ’;she gets to her feet steadily, wanders a little away from the team, and extends her right arm to the sky. She nudges the bead softly, and it travels down her finger to the edge of her fingertip, where it floats into the air. 

 It goes up, and up, and up- higher and higher still, until they have to strain their necks to see it go. 

 And then, right at the edge of the world, the pulse erupts into a mass of magnificent sparkling swirls of scarlet energy. 

 Wanda’s very own firework. 

 It’s the prettiest damn thing they’ve ever seen. 

**Author's Note:**

> -Endgame put my brain in a blender, so here I am ignoring its existence. (I love the film genuinely tho, full rant coming to a theatre near you very soon)
> 
> -I hope I did the suggestion justice, thanks once again Lucy! 
> 
> -I also hope that I did the condition justice. I am lucky enough to have never faced anything close to trauma, or anything in the realm of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I researched as much as I could, but I’m sorry if it’s still inaccurate- I would never intend distress or offense to anyone on the planet. 
> 
> -Also, if you’re following my multi-chapter, the next chapter should be up in the next week. Should. (I’m sorry it’s been three years, I can’t seem to write less than five million words every time). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, I love yall, and I wish you the best. See you soon <3
> 
> ** Wait! I forgot! (I’m sorry these authors notes are a novel) I just made a tumblr, @arabellacastre and I have no idea how it works but if you like you can speak to me there <3


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